


The Irresistible Scent of Sherlock Holmes

by HickorySmoke



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, musk kink, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HickorySmoke/pseuds/HickorySmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock runs out of deodorant and John discovers his musk fetish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Irresistible Scent of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This is silly, but was very fun to write. I hope you enjoy it. (|*_*)/

It was one of those days. John had just sat down with tea and a bit of toast, shaken open the newspaper, and put up his feet, when he heard a quick succession of text pings from the bathroom. After a brief pause (Sherlock leaning out of the shower to squint at his phone), the water shut off. _Case, then._  
  
“John! Case!”  
  
John sighed. The small part of him that would like to have one quiet morning this week was feeling very cheated. The rest of him, though, was buzzing with excitement as he took a scalding gulp of tea (never a good idea, but he always forgot in these moments), swung his feet to the floor, and rose to locate his socks, tossing the paper behind him.  
  
Because his flatmate was not actually human, Sherlock was already standing at the door fully dressed with curls impeccably placed (if a bit damp) by the time John had finished tying his second shoe. But then he was up on his feet, they were racing down the stairs, and Sherlock was hailing a cab. Every part of John was already thrumming with adrenaline.  
  
Somewhere between the first body (cold, dead almost 48 hours) and the second (murdered less than an hour before Sherlock had managed to track it down in a bit of a mad dash across the city), John started to notice it. _It_ being…well. A scent. Sherlock’s scent, specifically.  
  
He’d smelled men before, of course; he was familiar enough with his own natural scent, and deodorants hadn’t always been readily on hand during desert missions in Afghanistan. But being able to smell Sherlock — _Sherlock_ , who, when he deigned to dress at all was always so fastidious — was oddly thrilling. He was still Sherlock: larger-than-life, spinning about, making deductions faster than anyone else could even spot the tells his sharp eyes found in every inch of the scene before him. And yet the scent he was exuding was so… _human_. A heady musk. Not too sharp on the nose. If anything, Sherlock’s deductions shone even more brilliantly against the earthy olfactory backdrop. For the first time in months, John couldn’t help but let every word of his admiration slip from between his lips as Sherlock strode around the body before them, sharing his observations with John and Lestrade’s team.  
  
“Brilliant.”  
  
“Amazing.”  
  
“Incredible.”  
  
He knew he sounded like a broken record, but it was impossible to stop. John was surprised to realize that he didn’t particularly _want_ to stop. He’d long since admitted to himself that he was a lost cause when it came to Sherlock. Well. The first thought he’d had when Sherlock had first trained those grey-green eyes on him had been _if I ever get the chance…_ and his devotion had only grown with their friendship. But it was a secret he kept close. There was already enough speculation about the two of them as it was, and Sherlock had made his position quite clear on their first night together. John had known he wouldn’t be able to help his unrequited feelings—be they lust or a bit more—but he could certainly control himself enough to avoid making it _blindingly_ obvious to everyone around him. Including Sherlock. Especially Sherlock. It was much more important to maintain their friendship than it was for John to satisfy any more-than-friendly urges.  
  
Today, though, the logic behind that line of reasoning seemed distant, like words spoken above water when John was fully submerged. Somehow, that _scent_ was working its way through his brain and turning off all the parts that he’d trained to maintain his self-control. _Lestrade will think you’re a besotted fool,_ but John didn’t care. _Sherlock already has a raging inferno of an ego; he doesn’t need you to fan it,_ but this information was somehow irrelevant. _Everyone will know,_ but really. Everyone already did.  
  
Suddenly, John noticed that Sherlock had stopped speaking. He realized that he’d been staring quite openly, letting Sherlock’s words — and yes, his scent as well — wash over him. Now, Sherlock was towering over him, glaring down intently into John’s face.  
  
“Er—Sherlock?”  
  
“Why are you staring at me like that?”  
  
John tried to think of something to say, some reasonable explanation other than _I can smell you,_ you, _and it’s the most incredible thing,_ but…nothing came to him. Instead he ended up working his throat uselessly for several seconds. Unbidden, John’s mind provided a memory of a goldfish he’d kept as a child. When he’d scooped the fish out of the water to clean its tank, it had flopped about, eyes wide and mouth gulping at the air to no effect. John felt a bit like that now. Sherlock’s expression became even sterner, and John counted Sherlock’s eyes blink seven times before realizing he’d accidentally forgotten to breathe. He inhaled sharply, through his nose, and then felt himself blush at the sudden rush of musky air. Just a bit, but it was enough. Sherlock’s lips snapped apart just slightly into the tiniest of _Ohs_ , his eyebrows knitting together as he abruptly pulled back out of John’s space.  
  
“ _Really_ , John.” John could feel the heat climbing up the back of his neck. Sherlock glanced over to where Lestrade’s team was standing several meters away, and then turned back, hissing under his breath. “Of course. No deodorant.” John gaped. “I ran out this morning. No time to get more once Lestrade’s texts came in.”  
  
John was sure his entire face was approaching apple shade. It was really that obvious?  
  
“Surely you’ve smelled a human before, John, no need to act _scandalized_.”  
  
He almost laughed in relief, though it came out as more of a malformed huff.  
  
“I’m not — I’m not _scandalized_.”  
  
“Well I don’t know what you’d call it, then—”  
  
“No. Sherlock.” John took a step forward, into Sherlock’s space. Maybe not the best of ideas, since he was suddenly enveloped in that scent again, which slowed his thinking down considerably. “Seriously, Sherlock. I don’t mind. It’s…fine.”  
  
Brow furrowed, Sherlock simply nodded once before swirling back out of John’s reach and ducking down to look at the soles of the victim’s shoes. His scent lingered in the air around John’s nose. Honestly, how was this even possible? So yes, John found his flatmate-cum-colleague-cum-best-friend attractive, but _this_? John tried to search his memories for some evidence of a body odor…kink? Interest? Infatuation? But could think of nothing. Just Sherlock, then. How was he the exception to every rule? How was this fair? How could even his _musk_ be irresistible?  
  
—  
  
The cab they took back to Baker Street hours later felt incredibly close. Though John kept his gaze fixed pointedly out the window, Sherlock’s scent filled the air. After a full day of battling his desires under the pressure of the watchful eyes of Lestrade’s team and the pressing need to focus on the case, John couldn’t keep his mind from wandering any longer. He pictured himself pushing Sherlock’s Belstaff down over his shoulders. Pulling his shirt open. Tugging his undershirt out from beneath the waistline of his trousers, and finally reaching Sherlock’s skin and the source of that heady scent. It wasn’t hard to imagine at all, with the scent all around him and already deep in his nostrils. He would bury his nose into Sherlock’s armpit, though, and get right to the source. Did it smell different, that close? What did his sweat taste like?  
  
John tried to steady his breathing, which he realized had grown a bit forced. And of course, of _course_ he would be half-hard in a cab. Over _body musk_. What was he, a teenager? Some kind of bizarre sex addict? John casually raised a fist to his mouth and bit the sensitive skin on the side of his index finger to distract himself. He tried to cross his legs to hide his condition, but it wasn’t possible in the small space. Sherlock couldn’t possibly help but notice all of John’s maneuvering, but he seemed to be ignoring the situation. Thank God for small miracles.  
  
The final few minutes of their ride home were a torture. By the time they finally reached Baker Street’s familiar curb, John felt like he was about to burst from the uncomfortable, one-sided sexual tension. He jumped out of the car as if it were on fire, leaving Sherlock to pay for once and scrambling stupidly for his key as he practically ran the final few meters to 221. He’d just have to go to his room until he’d settled down and was again fit for human company. His hands were shaking just a bit, but the key slid home in the end. He was through the door and halfway up the stairs to the flat when he heard Sherlock’s imperious voice in the entry.  
  
“ _John_.”  
  
John stopped. _Stupid._ He should have pretended he hadn’t heard, kept moving. He could be safely hidden in his room right now. But no, here he was, standing woodenly in the stairwell with his shoulders hunched. Embarrassingly aroused and caught in the act.  
  
It only took a moment for Sherlock to reach the stairwell. John heard the sweep of his coat, his weighted tread on the stairs below as he ascended. And then there he was, and there _it_ was — that _scent_. But Sherlock didn’t stop at John’s side. He gracefully slid past, and for a moment John thought he’d be able to escape after all. But at the final moment, one of Sherlock’s improbably lengthy arms shot out behind him and his fingers found John’s wrist. And John followed where Sherlock led. As always.  
  
Where he led, it turned out, was just inside the door to 221B. John was unceremoniously pushed against the wall beside their jacket hooks as Sherlock kicked the door shut with a snap. For a moment, the solidity of the wall against John’s back was slightly reassuring. But then there was Sherlock, crowding his space. The Belstaff twisted around John’s ankles, and Sherlock’s musk twisted through his nostrils and into his psyche. Sherlock was speaking, leaning close and looking into John’s eyes for some kind of response. But after months of quiet longing and this impossible day of heady temptation, the sheer proximity sent John’s brain off-line and he couldn’t distinguish a word. He felt his tongue escape his mouth to wet his lips. Sherlock was right there, leaning over him and _looking_ at him and before John could stop himself, his hands were entwined in the lapels of the Belstaff and he was pulling Sherlock even closer, inhaling greedily through his nose. And then, they were kissing.  
  
Sherlock made a small, surprised noise when their lips first touched, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and they floated uncertainly for several seconds before settling gently onto John’s deltoids. And that _scent_. It was everywhere. John hummed happily, and pulled away just enough to adjust the angle at which their mouths met. Sherlock’s hands found John’s shoulders, then ran up them to settle on his neck. The movement opened the air around his armpits, and now his musk was overwhelming John in the best of ways. He must have gasped, just a little, because suddenly Sherlock’s tongue was in his mouth, doing little figure eights around the tip of John’s own tongue. He also swore he felt Sherlock run his tongue along the inside of his teeth. It was a bit weird, John thought, but then getting drunk on your flatmate’s body odor was a bit weird, too.  
  
As they kissed, John let his hands drop from Sherlock’s lapels to run down the front of his shirt — buttons straining, as always — and then back up his sides. He hummed again. He’d known, of course, from Sherlock’s penchant for wandering about the apartment in a sheet or less, that he had a good body. But it was a very different thing to steal a surreptitious glance over the morning paper and to _feel_ all that muscle beneath his fingers. It was glorious.  
  
And suddenly there were Sherlock’s hands, in a delayed mirroring act, pulling downward across _John’s_ shirt, running up _John’s_ sides. Making their way around to his lower back, and slipping down over his arse where they squeezed playfully. John couldn’t help but grin into Sherlock’s lips, then let out a small “Mmph!” as Sherlock used his new leverage to close the distance between the two of them, insinuating one of his long legs between John’s. John rocked his hips experimentally, letting his cock push against Sherlock’s thigh. _Oh, that was nice._ A small thrill ran up John’s spine as he realized that Sherlock’s own arousal was evident and currently pushing up against his hip bone.  
  
For several quiet moments, they stood locked like that, breathing heavily into each others mouths and rocking against one another. Then Sherlock pulled away, and John pulled his eyes open. Oh, he was lovely; his curls mussed, his beautiful cupid’s bow lips pink and slightly wet with John’s saliva. One of John’s hands drifted lazily upward as if of its own accord to cup Sherlock’s jaw. He ran his thumb along his lower lip, admiring its fullness. Then he let his gaze wander upward to meet Sherlock’s eyes. John was sure that Sherlock was making deductions about his own appearance — _pupils dilated, breathing elevated, pulse_ — yes, there were Sherlock’s graceful fingers wrapping deftly around John’s wrist. All John knew, though, was that Sherlock looked aroused as fuck and John was aroused as fuck and he hoped very much that they could remove some of this clothing quite soon.  
  
“So, then,” Sherlock said, a bit unsteadily. John cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. He hadn’t misread the look in Sherlock’s eyes, had he? Maybe this had been too much? An unwelcome advance, ruining a perfectly good friendship? Really, how had he let himself be so carried away by— “No deodorant.”  
  
 _Oh._ “Well. Yes.”  
  
“You…like the way I smell.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Interesting.”  
  
“…Yes.”  
  
Sherlock smirked.  
  
“You had no _idea_ you had a musk kink, did you?”  
  
“Well. Er. No.”  
  
“It caught you completely off-guard. That’s why you looked so miserable all day, why you threw yourself at me as soon as we got home.”  
  
“I’m…afraid so. Listen, Sherlock, if you don’t—”  
  
“ _I_ could have told you.”  
  
“—want to, we can— _Liar_.”  
  
Sherlock let out a small huff of laughter, his eyes twinkling evilly. He swooped in, brushing his full lips along the shell of John’s ear as he murmured in his deepest baritone.  
  
“So John. Tell me. Would you like to…smell some more?”  
  
John couldn’t help but let out a high giggle. The back of his head fell against the wall behind with a gentle thud. Sherlock was laughing, too, laughing and smiling into the crook of John’s neck. John thought he might cry at the absurdity of the situation. How had he managed to resist Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes for this long, only to be overcome by his _body odor_ , of all things? And how could throwing himself at his flatmate have gone so well? And why were two grown men giggling against the wall like school children when they could be having sex in the next room?  
  
Once he’d managed to calm down enough to breathe normally, he pushed Sherlock away, holding him at arms length. Sherlock wiped a tear from his left eye, and John focused on keeping his face straight.  
  
“To answer your question. Would I like to smell some more? Oh, god yes.”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth quirked up to one side, and he gestured towards his bedroom with a glance.  
  
“C’mon, then.”  
  
John felt a wide grin spread across his face. It was going to be an excellent afternoon.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hap birt, bumblebee~


End file.
